


Four times Edrahil dressed Finrod, and one time he did the opposite

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-02 13:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: A look at their relationship, through the lens of five short scenes





	Four times Edrahil dressed Finrod, and one time he did the opposite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piyo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/gifts).

> You gave the prompt for your art and man, I was hooked! Hope you like it :)

**I**

“I’m not going,” Finrod announced, pacing distractedly up and down the length of the chamber. “This was a terrible idea. I should never have let you talk me into this.”

Edrahil shook the linen tunic in his hand, admiring the gleam of the golden threads of the embroidery. “Pardon me for having a sense of propriety,” he said blithely, running a finger over the edge of a gleaming silver button.

“Propriety,” Finrod snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

“Manners would also suffice,” said Edrahil, pulling out the chair from the dressing table. “Sit down.” Finrod reluctantly complied, dragging his feet and slouching down in the chair, letting his hair fall down around his face. “Don’t be difficult,” Edrahil said. “If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s you.”

“Me?” Finrod said, indignant. He sat up and half-turned over his shoulder to look at Edrahil. “Unless I’m gravely mistaken, _you’re_ the one who said, ‘I think this calls for a feast’.”

“Mmm,” Edrahil hummed, noncommittal, deftly sliding the tunic over Finrod’s head. “That was me, as I recall. But in my defense,” he continued, threading first one and then the other of Finrod’s arms through the brocaded sleeves, “you’re the one who had the bright idea to establish a kingdom.”

“All I wanted was a stronghold,” Finrod corrected. “I never said anything about a kingdom—or being a king, for that matter.”

“Oh, poor you,” said Edrahil, kneeling to slip the old boots from Finrod’s feet. “Your skills of delving and diplomacy have sadly combined with your noble blood to put the curse of kingship on your head. Truly, you are to be pitied.”

“Oh, shut up,” Finrod said, planting the ball of his foot on Edrahil’s chest and pushing. Edhrahil fell back with a small _oof_ of protest, landing on his behind and looking up disapprovingly at Finrod, who smiled. “I’m nervous,” Finrod admitted, twisting a golden curl around his index finger and looking down at Edrahil. 

“I know,” Edrahil said.

“I never asked to be a king,” Finrod said.

“I know,” Edrahil said again.

“I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up,” Finrod said, his voice quiet and small.

Edrahil felt a swell of affection for his friend, and he smiled. Finrod was many things—a prince of the Noldor and a born diplomat, honest and loyal and true—but it was here, in private, when he was vulnerable and vulgar and frank, that Edrahil loved him best. 

Edrahil got to his knees and took Finrod’s hands in his own. “You won’t fuck it up,” he said, stroking a thumb reassuringly over the back of Finrod’s hand.

“You can’t know,” said Finrod, biting his bottom lip. 

“No,” Edrahil said, shaking his head. “But what I can do is believe, and if there’s anything I believe in, it’s you.”

Finrod looked at him, an earnest longing in his face. “Do you mean that?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Edrahil’s.

“Yes,” Edrahil said firmly. “I do.”

Finrod squeezed Edrahil’s hands, a grateful smile touching his lips. Edrahil pulled his hands free and reached for Finrod’s boots. He helped Finrod put them on, pulling the laces tight and smoothing the leggings where they met the soft leather of the shoes.

“Thank you, Edrahil,” said Finrod quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. Edrahil laid his hand atop Finrod’s in silent solidarity. Then he stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. “Alirght,” said Finrod, standing up suddenly. “Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

“Not yet,” said Edrahil, pushing him back down into the chair. He went to the dressing table and opened an ornate obsidian box, revealing a bed of plush burgundy velvet and gleaming jewels within.

“It’s too much,” Finrod said.

“It isn’t,” Edrahil insisted. He slid his fingers under the delicate metalwork, careful not to tangle the intricate strands, admiring the beauty of the jewels he held in his hands. He turned back to Finrod, who sighed and lifted his hair from his shoulders. Edhrahil laid the Nauglamir at Finrod’s throat and clasped it at the nape of his neck. It gleamed gold and ethereal against Finrod’s pale skin, and Edrahil felt a hitch in his breath as he beheld the friend who would soon be his king. 

“There,” Edrahil breathed. “Now you’re ready.”

Finrod looked at himself for a long moment in the mirror, and Edrahil could see the king that Finrod would be, proud and regal and beautiful, reflected in the polished glass. Finrod held out a hand, and Edrahil helped him up. “You’ll be great,” Edrahil said, gently tucking a strand of Finrod’s hair behind his ear. “And if you’re not, I’ll make fun of you for the rest of your life. No pressure.”

Finrod laughed and swatted at him, but Edrahil was too fast, deftly sidestepping the outstretched hand with a grin. “Too slow, my lord,” he said. “Or is it your highness now?”

“Your majesty, actually,” Finrod said, putting on an air of haughty superiority and tossing his head.

“You’ll always be Ingoldo to me,” Edrahil said.

“Promise me that,” said Finrod, growing serious once more.

Edrahil caught Finrod’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You have my word,” he said, smiling. 

Finrod nodded. “Let’s go, then,” he said, and let Edrahil lead him away.

**II**

Finrod was washing his face when Edrahil came in, his knock on the door more courtesy than query for permission. “You’re late,” Edrahil said.

“I have fifteen minutes,” Finrod said, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. Water ran in rivulets down his chin and splashed into the basin before him. “And anyway, they’ll wait for me to serve dinner.”

“To hell with dinner,” Edrahil said, striding over to the washstand and coming to stand at Finrod’s side, arms crossed, a scowl of disapproval on his face. “You’re three days later than you said you’d be.”

Finrod cupped water in his hands and splashed his face a final time, blowing out a long breath and letting the water drip back into the basin, his hands resting on its edge. “Hand me a towel, will you?”

Erahil took the towel from the back of the chair and held it out. Finrod took it in his own hand, but Edrahil didn’t let go. “Three days,” Edrahil said again, his tone reproachful.

“Yes, well,” Finrod said, tugging the towel from Edrahil’s hands and pressing it to his cheeks. “Travel is a bit unpredictable at the moment. There’s a war on, in case you’d forgotten.” He finished drying his face and straightened up, turning to look at Edrahil. 

Edrahil stood stiffly, arms crossed over his chest. If it had been anyone else, Finrod might’ve taken him for merely annoyed, or perhaps disapproving, but he had known Edrahil too long to misread the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his words losing their previous flippancy. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I know,” Edrahil said. He sighed and took the towel from Finrod’s hands. “I’m sorry I scolded you the moment I walked in.”

“No, you aren’t,” Finrod said. “And besides, you enjoy having something to reproach me for.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” Edrahil said, but the annoyance in his voice was friendlier than it had been a moment before. He went to the wardrobe and considered the tunics hanging there. “It’s just that I know no one else will do it.”

“And that’s a problem, is it?”

“You need someone to keep you in line,” Edrahil said, and though his back was to Finrod, his friend could hear the smile in his words. 

“Is that so?”

“I assume that’s why you keep me around,” Edrahil said, selecting a tunic from the rack and turning back to Finrod.

“I keep you around,” Finrod said, “because you are one of my oldest and dearest friends, and because you are one of the few who will tell me the honest truth, no matter the circumstance.”

“Someone has to,” Edrahil said, handing him the tunic. “Fortunately for you, it’s a service I’m willing to undertake.”

Finrod snorted and slid the shirt over his head. “Ah, yes,” he said, turning to throw a sarcastic glance over his shoulder at Edrahil. “You’ve always been civic-minded that way.”

“I am but a humble civil servant,” Edrahil said, holding a hand to his heart, “here to do my king’s will. Now sit down so I can do something about your hair.”

Finrod laughed and handed him a wide-toothed comb, which Edrahil ran through the tangle of Finrod’s curls. “It got a bit windswept on the ride,” he said, by way of apology.

“Just a bit,” Edrahil said, rolling his eyes. He deftly untangled the knots with the comb and proceeded to braid the hair at Finrod’s temples, pulling it back away from his face and into a knot at the back of his head. 

“How are you so good at that?” Finrod demanded, watching him work.

“Practice,” Edrahil said, tucking a pair of gold and emerald combs into Finrod’s curls to hold his work in place. He patted the back of FInrod’s head gently and nodded in satisfaction.

“Alright,” Finrod said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on,” Edrahil said, going back to the wardrobe. He stood on tiptoe to look up onto the shelf and reached in with both hands to retrieve a simple gold and emerald circlet from the various ornaments stored there.

“Is that necessary?” Finrod asked.

“Yes,” Edrahil said, carefully balancing the circlet in his hands as he carried it back to Finrod. “I like the look of it, and since you took your time coming home...” He set the circlet on Finrod’s head and stood back to admire him. 

Finrod laughed. “I suppose I owe you something for your trouble.”

“I should say so.” He reached out to smooth a flyaway strand of hair from Finrod’s forehead. “I missed your face these last few weeks.” 

“Come next time,” Finrod said, “and you won’t have to miss me.”

“Perhaps I will,” Edrahil said. “If you’ll have me.”

“Always,” Finrod said, with feeling. “Now let’s go to dinner before I starve.”

**III**

“I’ve had your sword sharpened,” Edrahil said, holding the gambeson in his hands while Finrod threaded his head and arms through their respective openings. 

“Good,” Finrod said, shaking his shoulders to settle the garment into place. 

“I had your arrows re-fletched last week,” Edrahil continued, holding out Finrod’s mail shirt for him to put on. 

“They were getting a bit ragged the last time we shot,” Finrod said.

“I almost waited to have it done,” Edrahil said, pulling up the padded gorget so it sat more comfortably under the mail. “I’m glad I didn’t. Where are your pauldrons?”

“Let’s get your shirt on first,” Finrod said.

“It can wait.”

“Edrahil,” Finrod said, his tone sharper than usual and brooking no argument.

“Alright,” Edrhil conceded. “If it’ll make you happy.” He pulled his own mail from the rack and let Finrod help him into it, shivering as Finrod ran his hands over his chest to smooth the rings into place.

“Pauldrons,” Finrod said, and Edrahil handed them over.

“What more have you heard?” Edrahil asked, his voice quiet against the backdrop of furor in the armory.

“Little,” Finrod said, matching the low pitch of Edrahil’s voice, his fingers deftly tying the pauldrons into place. “Not since…” His jaw tightened, and he fixed his eyes on the ties of the pauldrons, tying them with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” Edrahil said, laying a hand on Finrod’s shoulder. “Your brothers’ loss was unthinkable.”

“I haven’t had time to grieve them,” Finrod said, his voice hollow.

Edrahil squeezed his shoulder and then went to fetch Finrod’s pauldrons and vambraces. “We’ll have the time when this is done,” he said gravely, fitting the pauldron to Finrod’s shoulder. 

“Maglor’s folk were burned alive,” Finrod said.

“Valar,” Edrahil swore quietly. 

“Morgoth’s armies have overrun East Beleriand.”

“What news did the Feanorians bring?”

“Nelyo and Káno are holding the north,” Finrod said, holding out his arms to receive his vambraces. “Moryo fled east with Pityo. Tyelko thinks they’re arming themselves at Amon Ereb.”

“It happened so fast,” Edrahil said, immediately regretting the vapidity of the words.

“We’d grown lax,” Finrod said grimly. “I should’ve— “He broke off, shaking his head.

“We trusted too much in the strength of the siege,” Edrahil said. “You weren’t alone in that mistake.”

“There’s no solace in shared failure,” Finrod said.

They were silent a moment, standing together in the clamor and bustle of the armory.

“Findaráto,” a voice called above the din, and they both turned to see Celegorm striding toward them. “We need to move quickly. There’s no time for delay.”

“I’m right behind you,” Finrod said, nodding and turning over his shoulder to watch his cousin pass. He turned back to Edrahil.

“Take care, Ingoldo,” Edrahil said softly.

“And you, Edrahil.” He reached out and clasped Edrahil’s forearm, putting his free hand on Edrahil’s shoulder.

“Come back safely,” Edrahil said, “or face my wrath.”

Finrod laughed. “I’d rather face a balrog than your displeasure.”

“A wise choice,” Edrahil said, with mock gravity. They stood like that a moment, hands still clasped to one another’s arms, unwilling to part. “Go,” said Edrahil at last. “I’ll see you when this is through.”

Finrod opened his mouth, hesitated, and shook his head. He squeezed Edrahil’s shoulder and then let him go, turning on his heel and striding quickly away to fetch his weapons and his horse. Edrahil stood there for a long moment after Finrod had gone, watching him weave through the crowd until he was lost to sight. Then he shook himself and bent to pick up his vambraces, praying fervently for Finrod’s safety as he finished arming himself.

**IV**

Edrahil’s displeasure was a palpable thing, a looming wall of anger and silence that Finrod couldn’t bring himself to breach. Finrod sat in the chair facing Edrahil, who leaned back against the dressing table, arms crossed, glaring fixedly at the threads of the rug beneath their feet. Finrod was pulling small gemstone-capped pins from his hair, letting loose his curls from the pile atop his head, stacking the pins in a dish on the dressing table, careful not to bump Edrahil’s thigh, lest his fury find release.

His hands worked slowly, fingers working gently through his hair, finding pins and pulling them free until his hair was unbound around his shoulders. When he had finished, he looked up at Edrahil, who was watching Finrod’s face. “I’m sorry,” Finrod said quietly. “I know I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry.”

Edrahil’s face was hard, and he looked away from Finrod’s gaze, saying nothing. Finrod sighed and bowed his head, closing his eyes and letting his chin rest on his chest. He was exhausted, run-down, weary to his very bones. His heart ached, and he longed for a kind word from Edrahil, a reassuring smile, the press of Edrahil’s hand against his skin, but Edrahil remained distant and cold, standing with his arms crossed and his eyes downcast.

Finrod sighed, and lifted heavy arms to his chest, fingering the laces of his tunic. His fingers felt numb and deadened, and he picked in vain at the ties, which stayed stubbornly knotted in place. He sighed again, frustration and weariness overtaking him, and put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He heard the soft whisper of footsteps, and then Edrahil was kneeling before him, his hands at Finrod’s chest, deftly unpicking the knots that held the laces of his tunic in place.

“I have to go,” Finrod said, willing Edrahil to understand.

Edrahil’s jaw was set in anger, his heart untouched by Finrod’s silent plea. “You don’t,” he said stolidly, loosening the ties in their grommets. 

“I do,” Finrod said. “Barahir saved my life, Edrahil. I promised him—”

“That you’d take care of the brat,” Edrahil said, sitting back on his haunches.

“That I’d watch over him,” Finrod said mildly.

“I don’t think the man meant for you risk your life.”

“He risked his for me,” Finrod said.

“If it meant saving him,” Edrahil said, “then perhaps I could see the value in it. But you aren’t going to save him. You’re going with him to his death—and to yours.”

“Perhaps,” Finrod said. “But I must go.”

“No,” Edrahil said. “You have a choice.”

“Alright,” Finrod said, capitulating. “But I’ve made it, and I’ll stick to it.”

“Damn your sense of honor,” Edrahil said, hands balling into fists on his thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said again. It was all he could think to say. 

Edrahil bowed his head and was silent. Finrod’s chest ached with the knowledge that he would leave in the morning and the dread of a departure without reconciliation. Then Edrahil sighed and ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “If you won’t stay,” Edrahil said, “if you really mean to go, then I’m going with you.”

“Edrahil—”

“No,” Edrahil said firmly, sitting back on his heels. “I’ve watched you leave too many times. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights praying for your safe return. I won’t wait for you again. Where you go, I go too.” Finrod began to protest, but Edrahil waved him away. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “You won’t dissuade me. Where you go, be it even to the doors of Angband itself, I will follow. I won’t let you leave me again.”

Edrahil’s hands were in Finrod’s lap, curled gently into fists, and he looked up defiantly into Finrod’s face, daring him to disagree. Finrod took Edrahil’s hands in his own, his thumbs stroking over the ridge of his knuckles. “I can’t let you,” Finrod said, though sorrow and regret stabbed at his heart even as the words left his lips. “You said yourself that we likely go to our doom. I can’t let you follow me into death.”

“You can,” Edrahil said, his voice gentler now, his defiance ebbing away into stolid resolution, “and you will. I’ve made my choice, Findaráto, and I’ll stick to it.”

“Why?” Finrod asked, his voice quiet, breaking on the word, his anguish made real in the sound of his voice. 

Edrahil shifted forward, one hand cupping Finrod’s cheek, the other brushing the long golden curls from Finrod’s face. Then Edrahil was kissing him, and Finrod’s heart was in his throat, relief and sorrow and longing aching in his chest as Edrahil parted his lips and kissed him deeply, hungrily, as though he’d never have the chance to do it again.

Finrod pulled him up, welcoming the press of Edrahil’s tongue against his lips, his hands pulling greedily at Edrahil’s shirt. He stood, pressing his body against Edrahil’s, shuddering as Edrahil’s hands slid over his throat, his chest, the curve of his ass. All the fear and anger and turmoil of the night’s talks were melting away, replaced by a rush of desire, long hidden and now unable to be contained. He pushed Edrahil back against the dressing table, kissing him hard and fast and deep, his hands under Edrahil’s shirt, palms pressing into the smooth, warm skin of Edrahil’s chest.

Edrahil pulled him closer, his hands on Finrod’s ass, and Finrod put a knee on the dressing table for leverage. He hooked one arm around Edrahil’s neck and let his free hand slide down the hard muscle of Edrahil’s torso to his leggings, his fingers picking clumsily at the ties that held them closed.

Edrahil put his hand on Finrod’s, stilling its motion. “Ingoldo,” he murmured, breathing hard, his face flushed and harried and beautiful. “Are you sure you…” He trailed off, still breathing hard, as though unsure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

Finrod kissed him, just once, a tender, gentle press of his lips. Then he bent his head and undid the lacing of Edrahil’s pants, pulling them down none too gently to expose Edrahil’s stiffening cock. He took it in his hand, relishing the gentle gasp it drew from Edrahil’s lips, stroking slowly, almost experimentally. Then he knelt and, in one swift motion, took Edrahil into his mouth. Edrahil gasped and swore, tensing, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the table. Finrod took him down slowly, savoring the feel and the taste of him, the scent of his skin. Edrahil threaded his fingers into Finrod’s hair, and Finrod let Edrahil set the pace. The press of Edrahil’s hand was gentle at first, slow and unsure, and Finrod lingered on each stroke, his tongue darting cleverly over Edrahil’s skin.

Edrahil’s patience and diffidence were steadily stripped away by Finrod’s clever tongue, and soon he was thrusting wantonly into Finrod’s mouth, his fingers knotted roughly in Finrod’s hair, pulling hard enough to make Finrod gasp. Edrahil looked abashed, and his fingers loosened their grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered gruffly. “I didn’t—”

Finrod pressed a gentle, sensuous kiss to the tip of Edrahil’s cock and then stood up, pressing his hands to Edrahil’s chest and kissing his lips. “Don’t be,” Finrod said, the desire in his voice sending a thrill of arousal through Edrahil, who buried his face against Finrod’s neck, breathing hard.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, his skin burning under the gentle stroke of Finrod’s fingers.

“You have me,” Finrod said, smiling. Then he leaned into Edrahil, kissing along the line of his jaw, one hand stroking the smooth muscle of Edrahil’s chest. He let his lips brush against Edrahil’s ear, and his breath was hot against Edrahil’s skin as he whispered, “Now what are you going to do with me?”

**V**

“I wish,” Edrahil murmured, holding Finrod close against him, burying his face against Finrod’s neck, “we could stay like this forever.” 

“I know,” Finrod said. He could hear the longing in Edrahil’s voice, and it sent a stab of regret through his chest. Part of him longed to turn over, to face Edrahil, to kiss him, stroke his hair and tell him it would be alright. He couldn’t, though. He had never lied to Edrahil before, and he had no interest in doing it now. Instead, he snuggled back against Edrahil, kissing the arm that cradled his head, savoring the feel of Edrahil holding him close. 

Edrahil brushed the hair back from Finrod’s face and kissed the curve of his shoulder, letting his lips wander gently up to Finrod’s cheek. He pushed himself up on one elbow, and Finrod gave in, rolling onto his back and letting Edrahil kiss his lips.

It was a dangerous game, this balancing act on the razor-thin edge of his own desire, and Finrod couldn’t keep it up for long. Another moment, another gentle press of Edrahil’s lips, or slip of his tongue into Finrod’s mouth, and would be lost.

“We should go,” he murmured, though it pained him to say, and pained him even more to see the regret on Edrahil’s face.

For a moment, he thought Edrahil would refuse. Finrod almost wanted him to. It would be easier, he thought, than watching the hurt and resignation steal over Edrahil’s beautiful face. It would have to be.

But instead Edrahil smiled, a familiar quirk of the lips that tugged at Finrod’s heart. He reached out to touch Edrahil’s face, and Edrahil turned to kiss Finrod’s palm. “Come on, then,” he said, holding out a hand to Finrod. “Let’s get you dressed.”


End file.
